Hugs From My Mom

Graland Country Day School.

Graland. Country. Day School.

I hated that place.

It’s pronounced GREY-lind and yeah it rhymes with GAY-lind but I won’t use that slur because it’s cheap and easy and also Graland was anything but gay. It was competitive and mean and conservative and boring and definitely not gay.

It was in my new city, Denver, not my old city, Philadelphia. It was full of nasty WASPS, not compassionate Quakers. It was 4th grade when shit got real, not 3rd grade when everything was still for fun.

And I hated it.

Graland covers two square blocks in a rich residential neighborhood in central Denver known as Hilltop from which there are unobstructed views of the snow-capped Rockies. The campus includes a manicured soccer field, a giant gymnasium, a lush, grassy quad, and glass-walled buildings with state-of-the-art science labs, soft carpet, and lots of white kids who play lacrosse and would never rape anyone.

One kid I really hated was a 9-year-old boy named Cameron Arnold who had beautiful, sandy blonde hair like River Phoenix. One time Cameron and I made a $1 bet and I won. The next day he laughed in my face as he gave me 100 pennies in a blue, finger-sized duffel bag. Another time he pushed me down really hard. I slammed my head on the edge of a locker and cried until my mom picked me up from school. I don't think Cameron liked Graland either; he killed himself when he was 12.

In the mornings before school as I waited at the front door for the carpool to pick me up, I would sit sadly on the floor, cross-legged, with my neon green JanSport backpack and our dog, Cleo. I cried while Cleo let me pet her and, through tears of anxiety, begged my mom to let me stay home. She would hug me and I'd wail, "I just wish I could be a dog!"

I hated 4th grade at Graland so much that I quickly convinced myself I was the most awesome kid there. I was from the East Coast. I was cosmopolitan. I'd lived in Israel for a year. I'd already had a girlfriend.

And when we moved to Colorado in 1985, I was sure that I already knew way more than everyone about everything. The Nuggets were good but I knew the Celtics were better because I’d watched them beat up on my beloved '76ers for years. In February of '86, the Celtics were in Denver to play the Nuggets and I bet all of my friends the Celtics would win. I also gave them a 15-point spread. I don’t remember much from my childhood but I remember Kevin McHale missing an easy lay-up before the buzzer with the Celtics up by 14. I cried when the game ended and, through tears of rage, begged my mom to give me $20 so I could pay off my debts. My friends laughed in my face the next day and though I knew the bet I'd made had been my mistake, I blamed them for it.

Whatever. At least I was the best athlete in 4th grade. Sure, that swarthy kid Michael Noel could run way faster than me and yeah that chubby kid Peter Zinn could maybe throw a football a little farther than me and yeah I guess that boy with the soft hair who all the girls liked Kevin Hannigan sometimes beat me in tetherball but I still told myself I was the top dog, especially when it came to tennis.

Graland had this weird thing where school let out at 12:30 every Friday. When the weather was decent, we'd walk away from Hilltop and its tree-lined streets, huge front yards, and three-story homes; across Colorado Blvd and its stop lights, Pontiac Firebirds, and billboard ads for upstanding gentlemen's clubs such as Shotgun Willie's; towards Cherry Creek and its apartment buildings, gas stations, and delicatessens; and into Gates Tennis Center and its stocked vending machines, cold water fountains, and 24 cheap, public, outdoor tennis courts.

Every time we walked into Gates, I felt I had something to prove. That tall kid Adam Wheeler had pretty good groundstrokes and that angry Jew Gary Goldberg was a hell of a competitor and that awkward ginger Justin Dobrow also took private lessons but, like I already said, I had to be the best at tennis.

No one could beat me. Well, no one deserved to beat me. My brother was good at tennis. My mom paid for private lessons. I played tournaments. I won tournaments. I could hit slice and topspin.

And I wanted it so bad. Maybe too bad. I needed to win at everything. H-O-R-S-E against my brothers. Monopoly against my parents. And definitely tennis against anyone and everyone. Urban legend has it that one time I was playing a tournament at swanky Cherry Chills Country Club in South Denver and started cursing and throwing my racquet in the middle of a match. My mom threw some change on the court and screamed, "Take the bus home!"

I don't remember that happening but I do remember what happened one fateful Friday afternoon at Gates Tennis Center.

I was losing. Or maybe it was close. Or maybe I'd already lost. And I was mad. Really mad.

The racquet I played with at the time was a Prince Precision Graphite, a $95 gift from my mom. For you tennis junkies out there, this racquet is not be confused with the OG Prince Graphite or the white Prince Precision Comp. It was grey with blue stripes and, dude, it was the coolest, most slick racquet I could have ever imagined. I felt superior just holding it in my hand.

And I treated it like absolute shit. I banged it on the ground. I tossed it in the air. I threw it at the fence. And on that fun-filled Friday, I destroyed it.

I have no idea who I was playing or what the score was but Adam was probably pissing me off with those loopy groundstrokes or Gary was being a crafty little Jew or Justin was refusing to miss but I lost a point and, as hard as I could, slammed my racquet on the ground.

And then I slammed it again.

And then I slammed it again.

And then I looked up and I was right next to one of those giant white light poles and, as hard as I could, I slammed that motherloving Prince Precision Graphite into it.

And it cracked.

I don’t know why I was so mad. Maybe it was because Cameron had bullied me. Maybe it was because I lost more than I won in tetherball. Maybe it was because I was a new kid in a new school, desperately trying to conquer a new environment and constantly failing.

Regardless, when I looked down and saw that crack, my first and only thought was: Oh my god, she's gonna kill me.

My mom. My sweet mom. My hug-giving, debt-paying, change-throwing mom. I was scared she was gonna be mad. I was scared I'd disappointed her. I was scared she'd never let me play tennis again.

Neither she nor I remembers what happened after that. I'm sure she was pissed and that I was humiliated. I'm sure she bought me a new racquet and that I got over my shame pretty quickly. I'm sure I continued to pretend I was the best and try to prove to everyone I was the best and freak out when I wasn't the best.

I thought I hated Graland but I was just an angry kid. I thought I was better than everyone in 4th grade but I was just an arrogant little prick. I thought winning was all I needed but I just needed hugs from my mom.

Freedom

When I was 7, I watched Phoebe Cates bare her perfect breasts in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Freedom.

When I was 10, I gorged myself on Honey Nut Cheerios while watching unlimited episodes of Happy Days. Freedom.

When I was 13, I played countless hours of Super Mario with my red-headed neighbor, Scott Merrill. Freedom.

When I was 16, I bought a 24-pack of Zimas and a handle of Absolut Vodka with Daniel S. G*****’s driver’s license. Freedom.

I don’t remember if my mom and dad tried to get me to read a book, eat a vegetable, or stop watching our VHS copy of Fast Times over and over again in our basement, but it didn’t work. I didn’t have to finish my homework. I didn’t have to unload the dishwasher. I didn’t have to take out the trash. I had total freedom to be a “stupid, worthless, no-good, god-damn, free-loadin’ son-of-a-bitch, retarded, big-mouth, know-it-all, asshole, jerk” (Breakfast Club).

I don’t blame my parents for going libertarian on me. My dad was busy coaching baseball and taking an entire neurology department from nothing to something. My mom was busy teaching, working on her photography, running the entire house, and growing six-foot stalks of weed in our backyard. I was also their third child so any regulatory efforts they’d made regarding my older brothers had given way to free enterprise with me.

So now I’m a parent with at least four children of my own and I have no idea how much freedom to give them. As discussed in Saul’s instant cult classic post “Purple Wristbands,” I do believe we should give our kids more freedom to fail but sometimes philosophy collides with pragmatism: Theoretically, I want to give Broosevelt the opportunity to cross the big street near our house by himself but, practically, I don’t want him to die.

So I ask you, dear reader of Saul, father, mother, son, and/or daughter. What should I do? What should we do? What should our parents have done?

How much freedom should we give our children?

A quick heads-up: This post centers on Panini and Broosevelt because OG and Boni have been away at camp and are dead to me.

Should Broosevelt get more than 30 minutes a day on his Nintendo Switch? What if I told you that the only game he plays on there is Fortnite? And what if I told you that because the only game he plays on there is Fortnite, we all refer to his Switch as “the kill machine”? And what if I told you that every time he goes to the basement to play, he says, “Ok, I’m gonna go kill now.” Maybe in order to improve his visual coordination and connect with his friends online, I should let him “kill” as much as he wants. But maybe I should throw his Switch in the trash to stop him from becoming the next school shooter we never suspected would become a school shooter.

Should Panini get more than 4 hours a day on her phone? That’s right, you heard me correctly: She gets a total of four hours a day to check the weather (∼5 minutes), watch YouTube videos on how to French braid (∼10 minutes), watch TikTok videos of lip-syncing 16-year-olds caked in makeup and dressed like whores (∼10 minutes), edit her own photos and videos of her and lip-syncing 16-year-old friends caked in makeup and dressed like whores (∼15 minutes), listen to Chief Keef on Apple Music (∼20 minutes), and send vapid selfies on Snapchat (∼2 hours). When I check my own screen time, hers doesn’t seem that absurd but I still want to grab her phone from her long, bony fingers, chuck it off her 3rd floor balcony, and scream “Get a life!” right in her blue-eyed, button-nose, perfect, pretty, stupid little face.

If I’m too lazy to make Broosevelt a snack when he gets home from camp, he grabs handfuls of chips, cuts himself a giant piece of banana bread, and pours himself a glass of lemonade. If I’m too busy to put some vegetables on Broosevelt’s plate at dinner, he eats pasta and meatballs, and then some more pasta and meatballs, and then some more. If I’m too tired to get Broosevelt some dessert, he makes himself the biggest bowl of ice cream you’ve ever seen and adds two handfuls of chocolate chips. It’s disgusting, he has no self-control, and the freedom he has will, hopefully, result in profound fat-shaming and nutritional changes.

Panini plays tennis outdoors for more than 4 hours a day and she barely wears sunblock. Panini spends the entire day at the beach with her friends and she barely wears sunblock. Panini and I go to the pool for the whole afternoon and she barely wears sunblock. Panini is beautiful, bronze, and blissfully ignorant. I should probably make her lather up in front of me before she leaves the house but maybe I should let her soak up the UV rays, watch her skin turn to leather, and shame her for dying of skin cancer.

Did your parents make you clean your room when you were a kid? Do you make your own kids clean their room? Cuz I don’t know what the hell to do with Panini’s room. Clothes, makeup, bags, shoes, mattresses, crack pipes. It’s unconscionable. Should I ask her to clean up? Demand that she does so? Bribe her? Or just let her be the “Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence!” (The Princess Bride).

And speaking of the Queen of Putrescence, the butt cheeks you guys. The butt cheeks. I just can’t handle the butt cheeks. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed what every 16-year-old girl in the entire country wears when it hits 58 degrees but I can tell you that it involves visible butt cheeks. The shorts are so short that there are, in fact, butt cheeks hanging out from the bottom. I’m not talking about underwear. I’m not talking about bikinis. I’m talking about the actual shorts Panini wears to the pool, to brunch, and even to school. Should I make her put on something more appropriate or bow to the Baroness of Buttcheeks?

Ok, forget the body. Let’s talk about the mind. Boni and Broosevelt still read Percy Jackson but OG rarely reads for pleasure and Panini only reads “books” because we force her to. “Books” is in quotes because Colleen Hoover’s romance novels are more “crap” than “book.” Constant Snapchat, binging The Vampire Diaries, and YA fiction do not a brilliant mind make. Should we give her the freedom to rot in her own stupidity or force great literature upon her to remind her “there was a time in this country, a long time ago, when reading wasn’t just for fags” (Idiocracy).

Forget the body and the mind. How about cultural and spiritual enrichment? Panini used to play piano. Eventually we let her quit. OG used to play piano. We’re slowly letting her quit. My brothers and I played instruments as kids. My dad, to his great displeasure, ultimately let us quit. Boni is currently playing INXS’ “Never Tear Us Apart” and hopefully won’t quit. But Broosevelt is currently playing Europe’s “The Final Countdown” which seems to foreshadow his future fight for the freedom to quit.

Nothing I’ve written so far matters. All that matters is safety. Safety first, last, and always.

So here we go: Panini and her friends ride around the busy streets of Chicago on Lime scooters. No helmet, no instructions, and no clue what they’re doing. Ahhh, the freedom to be a teenager, scoot around town with friends with no care in the world, and get hit by an Amazon delivery truck.

I had my own room when I was in high school and sometimes I could convince a generous lady friend to accompany me to my bedchamber. My parents never said a word. Never told me to keep the door open. Never told me the girl had to leave by 11pm. Never told me to play Lauryn Hill’s remake of Bob Marley’s “Turn Your Lights Down Low.” Panini has had a boy or two in her room. We demand she keeps the door open. We demand the boy leaves by 11pm. But I know there’s nothing I can do and that if that boy is as much of a piece of shit as I was in high school, he’ll figure out a way to “get the prom queen impregnated” (Breakfast Club).

Panini takes the Red Line all over the city. Not sure if you know about the Red Line but it smells like weed, the floors are sticky like weed, and everyone on the train is smoking weed. The Boss tracks Panini’s whereabouts via the magical iPhone but what difference does it make? As I write, Panini and her friends are riding the Red Line somewhere deep downtown where a gentleman with neck tattoos is offering to sell them some weed. And then snatch their Lululemon Everywhere Belt Bags™, steal their $120 Air Force 1’s, and murder all of them and their newfound, short-lived freedom.

Speaking of weed, let me be blunt (pun): I have no idea if I should set a curfew for Panini, smell her breath when she walks in the door, rummage through her sock drawer, keep a careful count of the Modelos in the fridge, and bust her ass the next time the basement smells weird, or if I should look the other way, pretend I didn’t see that empty High Noon on her balcony, and hope that she makes better decisions than her father who, as a 16-year-old, drank more than two Zimas at a Tom Petty concert, found himself biking erratically and alone around midnight on a pitch-black, one-lane road in South Denver, and thought to himself, So this is how it ends.

Let’s be honest. We know how this ends. I’m letting go. I’ve already let go. My kids can do whatever the hell they want. Pretty soon I’ll be hosting Panini’s parties, greeting her butt-cheeked friends at the door, and handing out White Claws. They’ll thank me. I’ll blush, pull them aside, and whisper, “There are no rules in this house. I’m not like a regular mom. I’m a cool mom” (Mean Girls).

The Second Darkest Day

Do you know who the boss is in my house? No, I’m not asking if you know who the Boss is. I know you know her. She’s the sexy 46-year-old with the not saggy arms. I’m asking if you know who the real boss is in my house.

It’s me.

Sure, the Boss runs the legislative and executive branches by creating the grocery list (writing policy) and going shopping (executing policy), but I run the judicial branch by deciding if the grocery list is constitutional (interpreting policy). I get to sit back in my La-Z-Boy Chair of Judgment and say whether or not buying two boxes of Apple Jacks is consistent with the values and principles upon which our nation, I mean our family, is based.

I may not be the sexiest person in the house. I may not be the one who jets from coast to coast for meetings, who gets invited to be on roundtables with state attorneys general from across the country, and who’s always on CNN. But I am, ultimately, the most powerful entity in this household. I’m the one who gets to say, “Yes, 25 minutes per day of Fortnite for young Broosevelt is constitutional,” or “No, paying $35 for Panini’s Uber is unconstitutional.” I’m the one who gets the final word.

Similarly, the Supreme Court isn't sexy but it is arguably the most powerful of the three branches of our government because it gets the final word. It got to ultimately decide if white kids needed to go to school with black kids (Brown), if corporations could rape our elections (Citizens United), and, speaking of rape, if a woman who was raped and wants to end her pregnancy needs a doctor or a coat hanger (Dobbs). Yes. Yes. Hanger. Looks like we won one and lost two.

Quick aside: Did you know the Supreme Court confirmed its power of judicial review by limiting its own power? In 1803, it struck down part of a 1789 Congressional act by arguing that the act had given the Court too much authority. In so doing, the Supreme Court announced to the world that it could invalidate laws that violated the Constitution. In other words, it had the final word.

Given the power of the Supreme Court, its decision on Monday to offer immunity to our beloved former (and future?) leader, Donald J. Trump, marks, in my opinion, the second darkest day in the history of our country. See, it’s one thing for someone to do something wrong. But it’s a whole ‘nother thing for that person to get away with it.

It was dark when the South seceded from the Union. But we sacrificed over 600,000 people and forced those bigots to be part of our country. Victory!

It was dark when we forced Japanese Americans into internment camps during World War II but the Supreme Court ultimately ruled that the U.S. government could not detain loyal citizens. Moreover, Japanese Americans were allowed to serve in the war, a presidential commission in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s concluded that the camps had been a product of racism, and nearly $2 billion was disbursed to the tens of thousands of Japanese Americans who had been incarcerated. Most importantly, hundreds of millions of Americans realized how unjust and awful these camps were when Daniel-san discovered a box containing references to the deaths of Mr. Miyagi’s wife and child in the Manzanar internment camp.

It was dark in the ‘70s when Tricky Dick’s chronies broke into the DNC headquarters but Nixon resigned when impeachment was imminent. Sure, Ford pardoned him soon after but at least we got halfway there.

It was dark in the ‘80s when we secretly sold weapons to Iran and illegally siphoned those funds to right-wing rebel groups in Nicaragua, but a number of top officials were indicted and convicted. Sure, Reagan got away with it and Bush Sr. pardoned those officials in the final days of his presidency, but at least we got halfway there.

It was dark in the ‘90s when Clinton had sex with anyone with breasts and then perjured himself but Slick Willie (the man, not the penis) was impeached. Sure, the Senate didn’t convict and Clinton served out his time in office, but at least we got halfway there.

What’s happening now is new and different. Someone has done something wrong and, it appears, is going to completely get away with it. Specifically, in addition to obstructing justice, purging whistleblowers, and grabbing women by the pussy, Donald Jerkoff Trump demanded that the Georgia Secretary of State find him 12,000 votes, pressured Pence not to certify the 2020 election, and encouraged the descendants of those who seceded from the Union (see above) to storm the Capitol.

The legislative branch mostly did its job and impeached Trump (twice). The executive branch has mostly done its job and already convicted Trump of a felony. But the judicial branch - those with the final word - have now decided that Trump has certain presidential immunities, and therefore this Grand Wizard is likely going to get away with everything he has done.

So what is the darkest day, you ask? It won’t be the day when, based on Monday’s ruling, a lower court decides Trump is immune from prosecution for Alleged Crime X. It won’t be the day when, based on Monday’s ruling, the Supreme Court overturns a lower court’s ruling and decides Trump is immune from prosecution for Alleged Crime X. And it sure as hell won’t be the day when the Boss decides to buy two boxes of Apple Jacks on her own.

The darkest day will be November 5th, 2024 when American voters - those with the final final word - re-elect Donald Jagoff Trump as President of the United States of America.

Here’s hoping We the People don’t let that darkest of days occur.

It's Not a Tumor

Remember the 1990 classic Kindergarten Cop? Arnold Schwarzenegger has a headache and the kid who always thinks about death says, “It might be a tumor.” Schwarzenegger replies, “It’s not a tumor. It’s not a tumor. At all.”

Well that’s what I’m reminded of when I tell you from the bottom of my heart and soul that what is happening in Gaza right now is not a genocide: It’s not a genocide. It’s not a genocide. At all.

If you don’t know the definition of genocide, you’re an idiot. But let’s clarify anyway. As defined by the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment on the Crime of Genocide and adopted by the U.N. General Assembly in 1948, genocide is “acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnic, racial, or religious group.”

The first key clause, if I may, is “intent to destroy.” Genocide, in its most simple form, is when one group of people intends to utterly destroy another group. To completely fuck them up. To kill as many of them as possible. To wipe them off the face of the earth.

The Nazis wanted to kill every last Jew. Hutu extremists wanted to kill every last Tutsi. Their intent was clear and the destruction they wrought was severe.

So let’s start with Israel’s intent. Is it the intent of those in power in Israel to destroy Palestinians? To completely fuck them up? To kill as many of them as possible? To wipe them off the face of the earth?

Absolutely not.

How do we know this? Because, quite simply, if Israel wanted to kill every Palestinian, it could. Are you familiar with the Israeli Defense Force (IDF)? It is one of the best (per capita, arguably the best) militaries in the world. It won in 1948. It won in 1967. It won in 1973. It’s taken its lumps for sure but the IDF is one of the most formidable armies in the world and trust me when I tell you that if the IDF intended to commit a genocide against the Palestinian people, it could.

Before I go any further, let me be clear that I am not celebrating the IDF or militarism or war or anything else associated with people dying. I lament the fact that Israel has been in a near constant state of war since its founding. I lament the fact that Palestinians have bore the brunt of the IDF’s victories. I lament the fact that all Israelis (including the ultra-orthodox schmucks, inshallah) have to serve in the IDF. I lament the fact that the IDF even exists. I wish Israel could be like Costa Rica and not have an army, and that Israelis could walk around super chill saying pura vida rather than super upset saying kus emek (Arabic for “your mother’s pussy”).

But, unfortunately, Israel has and needs a military. And, unfortunately, Israel’s military is so strong that if it wanted to commit a genocide, it could. But, fortunately, it does not want to.

So how do I know it doesn’t want to? How can I, with any certainty, speak to the intent of the IDF? Well let’s start with numbers.

The Nazis killed approximately 11 million people in the Holocaust, 6 million of whom were Jews. Hutu extremists killed approximately 800,000 people during the Rwandan genocide, most of whom were Tutsis. As of June 26, 2024, Israelis have killed approximately 35,000 Palestinians. Not for one second am I saying 35,000 is insignificant. It’s significant. It’s tragic. It’s beyond tragic. But it’s not a genocide. The death toll in Gaza is less than 5% of what it was in Rwanda and less than .5% of what it was in the Holocaust.

Scale also matters. The Nazis killed 6 million of Europe’s 9 million Jews. 67% reflects an intent to destroy. Hutu extremists killed approximately 700,000 of Rwanda’s 1 million Tutsis. 70% reflects an intent to destroy. Israel has killed approximately 35,000 of Gaza’s 2 million Palestinians. Does 1.75% reflect an intent to destroy? Hold that thought.

The second key clause of the definition of genocide is “in whole or in part.” 1.75% is, ipso facto, “in part,” right?

Yes, but let’s consider geography. In the midst of frickin’ World War II, the Nazis painstakingly killed 6 million Jews across millions of square miles in Europe. Bravo. Rwanda is much smaller, only 10,000 square miles (about the size of Maryland), so that made the killing a bit easier. But Gaza is downright tiny: 140 square miles (about the size of Philadelphia). In such a convenient location, wouldn’t you expect someone perpetrating genocide to have killed a more sizeable “part” of the population than 1.75%?

Oh, but Israel hasn’t had enough time to kill more Palestinians, you argue. Time? Do you know how long it took for Hutu extremists to kill 800,000 people? Three months. I won’t bother doing the math of how many people died each day, but I’m sure we can agree that the Rwandan génocidaires’ intent was crystal clear, as was the Nazis’ (train schedules, gas chambers, etc.). If Israel intended to commit genocide, eight months would be more than enough time, particularly in such a densely populated area as Gaza.

The Nazis had time, intent, and technology. They not only benefited from their world-renowned German culture of efficiency, but they also had the best technology in the world, including but not limited to carefully constructed crematoria, a strong relationship with logistics companies such as IBM, and, my personal favorite, Zyklon B.

Rwandans had neither time nor technology but when there’s a will, there’s a way. You know how most Tutsis were killed during the Rwandan genocide? Machetes. That’s right, hundreds of thousands of people were slaughtered in less than three months by wild, crazy, and committed machete-wielding fanatics.

And then there’s the IDF, one of the strongest, most technologically advanced militaries in the world. It has the capacity to go from 35,000 to 350,000 in weeks, but it doesn’t want to. Technology, yes. Geography, yes. Intent, no.

There is intent, you say. It’s just that the world won’t allow Israel to do what it wants to do. Ok, get the fuck out of here with that shit. Israel goes to war when it wants to go to war. Israel builds settlements when it wants to build settlements. Israel violates U.N. resolutions when it wants to violate U.N. resolutions. Israel does all types of fucked up things because the U.S. is its sugar daddy and “nobody fucks with the Jesus” (Big Lebowski). If Israel wanted to commit a genocide, there is little the world could do to stop it.

Speaking of the world, can we talk about South Africa for a moment? It was the first country to officially accuse Israel of genocide and I believe it is important to spend a minute on why these salty, self-righteous bastards did what they did. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, Israel sold weapons to the Apartheid regime, and the people who were oppressed then are in power now, and they are still bitter. I get it. I do. Israel made a huge mistake in profiting off of others’ suffering, and I completely understand why South Africa is pissed. But pissed does not mean accurate. In fact, it usually means biased and inaccurate. So, South Africa, I’m sorry about Apartheid, I’m glad it ended, I’m glad you have a (deeply flawed) democracy, and I think it would be best if you shut the hell up and stopped making wild allegations against other (deeply flawed) democracies.

Back to the death toll for a moment: Of the 6 million Jews who died in the Holocaust, pretty much all of them were innocent civilians. Of the 800,000 Tutsis (and Tutsi “sympathizers”) who died in the Rwandan genocide, pretty much all of them were innocent civilians. Of the 35,000 Palestinians who have died since October, approximately 2/3rds of them were innocent civilians. 23,000 is terrible. 23,000 is tragic. 23,000 is beyond tragic. 23,000 also means “in part” is now closer to 1%. I challenge you, dear reader, to find another “genocide” in the history of the world in which only 1% of the civilian population was killed.

Hundreds of Chinese protestors were killed by government troops in one day in 1989. Was that a genocide? I’ll raise you: Approximately 150,000 Japanese civilians were killed by two bombs in three days in 1945. Was that a genocide? Raise you again: More than 1 million Vietnamese civilians were killed by thousands of bombs in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. Was that a genocide? We have to look at intent, we have to look at what “in part” really means, and we definitely have to look at context.

So let’s do that: Hamas is fully ensconced amongst the Palestinian civilian population. I know, I know, you’ve heard this argument a million times. But think about it for a second. The Germans plucked the Jews from society, transported them to remote, often rural locations, and killed them. Hutu extremists killed Tutsis wherever and whenever they could with zero shits given to collateral damage or innocent civilians. In fact, they were targeting innocent civilians. Israel is targeting extremists/militants/terrorists/rapists/bad guys who have completely embedded themselves in homes, businesses, schools, and, yes, even hospitals. In fact, they’re hiding under the civilian populations. (God damn geniuses.) One could therefore argue that Israel has done a good job of limiting civilian deaths to about 23,000. I won’t go so far as to make that argument, but I hope by this point we’re on the same page that what’s happening in Gaza is not a tumor, I mean genocide.

If you’re still not convinced, let’s talk about the trucks. Hundreds of aid trucks enter Gaza every week. Hundreds. Yes, that is fewer trucks than normal (there is a war going on, after all), but it’s still a lot. And, personally, if I were perpetrating a genocide, I wouldn’t let in one single truck. Letting trucks into Gaza, where Israel is allegedly committing a genocide, is like putting the Jews in Auschwitz, gassing them, incinerating them, and every other day or so bringing in train loads of borscht and matzah ball soup. Letting trucks into Gaza, where Israel is allegedly committing a genocide, is like forcing hundreds of Tutsis into a local church, setting the church ablaze, burying the charred bodies in a mass grave, and in the days before you burn them alive bringing them local coffee and cassava. Letting trucks into Gaza is either Israel’s ingenious genocide subterfuge or just another example of its desire to destroy Hamas and, if and when possible, lessen civilian suffering.

I haven’t even mentioned October 7th. May I? What group has ever needed an excuse to commit genocide? What group has ever waited to be attacked before it commits genocide? The Nazis planned the Holocaust for years. Hutu extremists imported weapons and disseminated propaganda for years. In contrast, everything happening in Gaza right now is a response to October 7th.

Actually, no, that’s wrong. I just realized that Israel has been planning this genocide in Gaza the entire time. Here was the plan: Accept a proposed Palestinian state containing Gaza in 1948; capture Gaza in 1967, occupy it, and build settlements; dismantle all settlements in and completely withdraw from Gaza in 2005; wait to be attacked in 2024; and then go buck wild. Yeah, that makes sense.

If what’s happening in Gaza is a genocide, it’s like no other genocide the world has ever seen. It is the most inefficient, ineffective, and idiotic genocide the world has ever witnessed.

I know, I know. You’re convinced. You agree. You’re with me. And you don’t care. You’re asking yourself why it matters if it’s a genocide or ethnic cleansing or a war or a just war or a counteroffensive or a tumor. I’ll tell you why it matters.

Because Israel sucks right now. It’s sucked for the last 20 years and it’s had major moments of suckiness for the last 100 years. It, like the United States, England, Russia, Japan, India, Egypt, South Africa, Brazil, and every other country in the world (except maybe Norway?) is far from perfect. It makes and has always made terrible mistakes.

Netanyahu is an absolute piece of shit and many people in the government right now are even bigger pieces of shit. They don’t care about Palestinians, and they certainly don’t support a Palestinian state. In fact, there are even those in the current government who very well might want to perpetrate genocide in Gaza, or at least look the other way if it occurred. But those voices are tempered by the majority of Israeli citizens and by those in the Israeli government who understand that neither Palestinians nor Israelis are going anywhere, and coexistence is the best and only option. We are right when we allege that Israel has been sucking, and we should demand accountability and progress. We are wrong when we allege that Israel is committing genocide, and we should demand truth and accuracy.

Ok, here’s why I really care: Because I care about history and I care about Israel’s place in it. I know Israel has already been and will always be criticized, if not downright condemned, for many of the mistakes it’s made. And I accept that. But I will not accept 50 years from now when someone writes a history book and states that Israel committed a genocide in Gaza in 2023 and 2024. The idea that a reasonable historian may one day write that makes me sad and mad, and I want my grandchildren to read the awful, terrible, tragic truth about the last eight months in Gaza, not inaccurate, politicized hyperbole.

I'm Dying

For 47 years, I never thought about death.

When I was 9, my grandpa was dying of a brain tumor and he moved to Denver to live with us for the final few months of his life. I remember one night I was in the bath and the water was warm, not hot. My grandpa came in to brush his teeth and forgot what he was doing. He stared down at the sink, frozen, for the longest few minutes of my life before my mom yelled upstairs to see what he was doing. He died shortly after, his funeral was sad, and I went back to playing baseball and video games.

When I was 19, my dad nearly died from a clot in his stomach. I flew home from college, visited him in the hospital for a couple days, and flew back. I was worried but optimistic. My dad got better and I went back to playing tennis and chasing girls.

When I was 29, I briefly considered my own death after attending the most wretched, soulless wedding in the history of wretched, soulless weddings. The rehearsal dinner was at a Maggiano’s in a strip mall, the groom was (is) a piece of shit, and I knew the marriage would last forever and be miserable the entire time. It was an existential moment for me, as I’d been with the Boss nearly five years at that point and needed to, as they say, shit or get off the pot. For the first time, I started thinking about death by asking what I was gonna do with the rest of my life.

When I was 39, my dad started dying of cancer. Though I talked to him on the phone nearly every day in the year leading up to his death, I rarely went to Colorado and I wasn’t that close to the details of his demise. I knew about the sores in his mouth after the first round of chemo but even now as I write, I can’t remember much else. The cancer wouldn’t go away and my dad called it quits after about a year when a tumor started growing out of his nose. We all went to say goodbye and I watched his heart stop after the doctors mercifully ramped up the morphine. Less than a week later, I started what would become the most challenging job of my life and completely buried my head in the sand. I talked to my mom most days on the way home from work but we didn’t talk about my dad much. I, in particular, generally avoided the topic of death. I was busy with work and four kids, and mourning my dad’s death was, in theory, important but, in practice, painful and distracting.

When she was four years old, Panini (15) went to a museum exhibit on Pompeii and cried herself to sleep for the next few months cuz, for the first time, she understood that death was real and that, at some point, it was coming for her.

None of that stuff ever mattered to me. Jaws didn't scare me and cancer was for the birds. I've always felt like the Black Knight from Monty Python's The Quest for the Holy Grail who, after getting two arms and one leg chopped off, yells, "I'm invincible!"

But then this past year, it hit me: I'm not invincible.

I'm dying.

I recently got my first colonoscopy. Despite a few hemorrhoids, the colon looks good. But, see, my dad died of kidney cancer, my paternal grandpa died of colon cancer, and my maternal grandpa died from a brain tumor, so let’s just say it runs in the family, I’m at high risk, and I'm probably dying of undiagnosed colon cancer.

If I'm not dying of colon cancer, I'm probably dying of diabetes. Last summer I went to the doctor for aforementioned colonoscopy referral and because I hadn't been to a medical professional since I was 18 (because those who are immortal don't go to the doctor), he decided to do a full check-up, including blood work. He discovered and informed me that my sugar levels were too high and that I was officially pre-diabetic. Pre-diabetes is pretty much the same as diabetes and diabetes is the number #1 killer in our country, so by the transitive property unless I stop grabbing handfuls of Crunch Berries, I am dying.

I recently got sick and it lasted for almost a week because I'm middle-aged, my immune system isn't what it used to be, and, well, I'm dying. I also refuse to take medicine because taking medicine would be an acknowledgement that I need medicine, and if I acknowledge needing medicine now, then fast forward 30 years and I’ll have one of those pill boxes with my daily meds which I need to take or else I’ll die.

I have the hips of an octogenarian, my thumbs hurt from texting, and I need to lift weights once a week or my little Auschwitzy body starts atrophying. I am vigilant about pruning my fungus-infused toenails and I have a reminder in my phone to cut my ear and nose hair on the first of each month. Sometimes it occurs to me to masturbate not because I’m horny but because a good friend of mine says that if I don't, I'll get prostate cancer and die.

I'm tired all the time. I get migraines if I don't eat, drink, or sleep enough, I fall asleep grading papers at my desk, and I nap in my car at work. On Thursday afternoons, in particular, you can often find me in the fully reclined passenger seat of a blue Nissan Leaf in the school parking lot. On Wednesday nights, due to low-intensity tennis and the consumption of one full beer, I get six hours of sleep rather than the mandatory eight, so I am barely functional on Thursdays. From the second I wake up, I am obsessed with my forthcoming nap, so much so I that I so carefully deliberate over my parking spot at 7:40am because if direct sunlight were to hit the passenger seat between 1:30pm and 2:30pm, my nap would be interrupted, I would get a migraine, and I would die.

I've given up on self-improvement (as dying people often do) and have thrown whatever remaining time and energy I have into teaching Panini how to hit a slice backhand and Broosevelt (10) how to shoot with his left hand. As you know from previous posts, they're no good, but I'm still way too emotionally involved and often wake up in the middle of the night obsessing over why they care so little, why I care so much, and how if Broosevelt doesn’t start wearing a cup when he plays baseball, he’ll get hit in the balls, he won’t be able to have kids, and the family name will die when I die.

I’m declining cognitively. I can't remember the names of any of OG's (13) friends. I read more slowly than I used to and the National Geographics are piling up. Word retrieval has never been my strength but it is now officially a weakness: In the past couple days alone, I couldn't remember the words "merge" or "silverware."

I’m way too emotional, perhaps because the Boss and/or I are perimenopausal. I cry watching Ted Lasso, the rage I feel when Broosevelt swings at a bad pitch seems unhealthy, and I get absolutely apoplectic when the Boss leaves a cabinet open in the kitchen.

I have one foot in the grave professionally. My students used to feel like younger sisters and brothers. Then they became my nieces and nephews. Now I’m older than most of their parents, they tease me for wearing my reading glasses, they give me blank stares when I reference Sixteen Candles or A Few Good Men, and they apply new meanings to old words such as sell, cap, and drip. I pity my students, I hate their stupid, anxiety-ridden, enabled/disabled generation, and I should probably stop teaching and start "volunteering" aka dying.

I’m psychologically trapped. As death is now imminent, I feel an urgency to write more, play more, live harder, etc. but I also feel the weight of death and the hopelessness of survival, so I don’t do any of those things cuz what’s the point. I'm obsessed with clickbait articles in my AppleNews trough such as "Can this Chinese fruit curb aging?" but I don't follow any of the advice. There's a safety recall on aforementioned Nissan Leaf but I refuse to take it to the dealer because I want it all to end like Thelma & Louise.

I'm all alone. The Boss tells me she loves me but is asleep by 9:45 every night after she and Panini watch Bridgerton without me. At Boni’s (10) soccer games, I sit as far as possible from the other parents. I don't play beer pong with the other 4th grade dads because I don't like beer pong or 4th grade dads. The only "friends" I do have are forced to see me every week because I reserve their tennis courts. Most Fridays end with a solitary walk-about in my neighborhood and falling asleep on the couch by myself halfway through an episode of an erotically underwhelming episode of Game of Thrones.

But worst of all, the true sign that I am old, alone, and dying is that my own children have abandoned me. I used to feed them, bathe them, and wipe their little butts. I used to take them to the blue park, make them peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and read them Goodnight Moon before they went to bed. We used to have Michael Jackson dance parties, play "Somebody That I Used to Know" on the piano together, and watch Goonies for family movie night.

Now they wipe their own butts and take out the Barbecue Lay’s whenever they want. Now they’re on their devices playing Fortnite or watching TikTok. Now they only talk to me when they need $10 or a ride to the Red Line. Broosevelt's the only one left who will still shower with me.

I find myself holding on for dear life to the 13-minute car ride to school with Panini each morning. I’m usually annoyed at her for being a couple minutes late and I shame her for her short shorts. She gives me a grade for the U-turn I make after we come out of the alley. Sometimes we listen to NPR and talk about Gaza, and sometimes we listen to 104.3 and "Back That Ass Up." Sometimes she gets mad at me for being so tired and quiet, and sometimes she lets me pet her head. Sometimes we argue over who gets to wear the giant sunglasses I keep in my car. Sometimes, randomly and sweetly, she says "Hello" and gently touches my cheek with her index finger. When I drop her off at school, she always asks to stay in the car for "just one more minute." I say no because I have to get to work but really I’m saying no because our time together is ending anyway cuz she’ll be off to college in two years and we won’t be able to drive to school together anymore and then I’ll never ever see her again and I’ll be all alone and dead.

At least sometimes I let her wear the sunglasses.